


fool's gold and plastic diamonds - poetry

by with_wit_and_perfect_timing



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Freeform, Graphic Description, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Panic Attacks, Poetry, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Slam Poetry, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:11:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/with_wit_and_perfect_timing/pseuds/with_wit_and_perfect_timing
Summary: Just some poems that I've written in my free time





	1. Chapter 1

                It’s hard to convince yourself

            that you don’t matter

            it takes years, maybe decades

            to build yourself a strong foundation of self-hatred

            towering doubt and skyscrapers of insecurities

            walls of criticism and ceilings of fear

            and once you finish building your castle of depreciation

            you throw it to the sky

            where it rests on the clouds and blends in with the blue

            you lasso the sun and meld it into a chandelier

            dazzling with diamonds and pearls and lies

            and you take up a permanent residence

            and you’re too afraid to leave the castle’s silver walls and rooms of gold

            and your bed made of feathers

            so high up in the sky

            because maybe, just maybe

            you will fall

            so you stay holed up in your castle that you made just for you

            where it’s safe

            and something to cling to

            to keep you from drowning in the seas of change below

            and you think to yourself

            “even if my life is falling to shambles

            at least I will always have my castle.”

            but sometimes

            a lot of times

            the castle you cling to will become

            cramped.

            too many thoughts crowd your space

            until you can’t breathe and you can’t find a foothold

            and soon

            the seas of change will rise and flood in

            and you begin to drown as it fills your lungs

            after a while, the sea level lowers

            and you retch up water until the water becomes red

            and you look around your home

            the ceiling drips and your furniture is molding

            so you build it back up

            “to its formal glory,” you tell yourself

            but

            as you grow older

            and you become stronger

            and all of the storms have passed

            there comes a time when your castle begins to seem

            dingy

            and you realize the silver walls

            are actually covered in rust

            and your bed is nothing but bricks

            your chandelier is full of spiders and rot

            the floors are paved with soot

            and you’re choking on dust

            your castle of deprecation has always been in shambles

            but the sun was always too bright to see it

            cracks and leaks painted over with fool’s gold and plastic diamonds

            but when night falls

            you see the wreckage

            and you see the things you were too blind to see before

            so you tear down the silver walls and rooms of gold

            you pull the chandelier to the floor

            where it crashes with a brilliant shatter of sun beams

            you light a match and throw it

            burning the castle into smoldering embers

            and the sky catches ablaze

            and the clouds are in flames

            it burns and burns and burns

            until it’s nothing but dirt and ashes and smoke

            choking the air around you

            and you realize you’ve never breathed clearly until now

            you will miss your castle, and the silver, gold, and chandelier

            you’ll even miss the drowning and the water turning red

            but slowly and surely

            you build yourself a new home

            it takes longer than the castle, and it will feel like centuries

            you’ll get sore and bruised and maybe even bleed

            blood and sweat and tears

            your hands will become callused

            and scars will begin to form

            maybe even your hair will gray from the time passing

            but finally, your home will stand

            a modest house that’s not too modest

            it’s not grand, and there’s no gold or diamonds

            there is no chandelier, and no glittering pearls

            and it’s right on the ground

            but the walls are strong and the floor is sturdy

            there are no cracks and the ceiling doesn’t leak

            there are still some floods from the seas of change

            but your head will forever stay above the water

            because your foundation was built with care

            a home built on love

            a home built with love

            you live there now

            on the ground instead of on clouds

            it’s set on a grassy knoll

            and the sun shines bright right where it belongs

            the sky is bluer than blue

            and right in front

            of your not-too humble abode

            is a welcome mat

            reading _home sweet home._


	2. trigger warnings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Descriptions of self harm, cutting, implied suicide, depression. If it's too much for you to handle, please stop reading, I really don't want my writing to hurt you! Keep yourself safe, loves. Life gets better. You're beautiful <3

I've been sitting with a box cutter in my hand  
  
For four hours, thirty-two minutes, and seventeen seconds  
  
I'm thinking about how easy it would be  
  
To glide the glinting edges across my arm  
  
My wrists  
  
My thighs  
  
My stomach  
  
To feel the rush of watching the crimson stripes appear  
  
To feel the sting of the metal  
  
Four hours, thirty-two minutes, and forty-eight seconds  
  
I push the blade in and out with my thumb  
  
Methodically  
  
They don't put trigger warnings on box cutters  
  
Or commercials for knives  
  
Or razors for shaving  
  
They don't warn you, warn you that every time you see the blades  
  
They don't warn you of the urges you begin to feel  
  
A hunger that should never be satisfied  
  
Four hours, thirty-three minutes, and six seconds  
  
They don't put trigger warnings on words  
  
The questions that are asked  
  
The excuses that are made  
  
To cover up your scars with sleeves of lies  
  
I twist the box cutter in my hand  
  
It wasn't supposed to be here, the box cutter  
  
It should be locked away with my other tools of weapons  
  
Weapons of self-destruction   
  
Thirty-three minutes, and fifty-eight seconds  
  
I pull them out, one by one  
  
A sharp nail  
  
A thumbtack  
  
A shard of glass  
  
A broken coffee mug  
  
I run my fingers over them, barely touching, just enough  
  
Four hours, thirty-five minutes, and nine seconds  
  
I want to embed them into my skin, every single one  
  
I want to feel the pain, to mask something far worse  
  
I want to drown my demons' screams  
  
Even though I know they can hold their breath  
  
Waiting for as long as it takes for the scabs to fade away  
  
Into pale streaks of hatred  
  
There are no trigger warnings for your own arms  
  
Reminders of the times you were strong for too long  
  
I put them back into their box, my weapons  
  
Their sharp ends mocking me, screaming my name  
  
Beckoning me closer  
  
I close the box tight  
  
Four hours, thirty-six minutes, and for as long as I can hold on  
  
I throw the box in the trash  
  
This time, I will not fish it out in desperation   
  
This time, I will not give into the frantic cries  
  
This time, I will not succumb to the addiction  
  
This time, I will not let my own body become my trigger  
  
This time, I will free myself from this prison  
  
I am stronger than my pain  
  
I am more than my pain  
  
I am worthy. 

I am beautiful.  
  
I am resilient.   
  
 _I am free_


End file.
